


Fine

by LearnedFoot



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bottom Tony Stark, Forced Orgasm, Frottage, Hurt Tony Stark, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Non-con with a Happy Ending, POV Tony Stark, Peter Parker Is Really Sorry, Spider Powers Gone Wrong, relatively happy anyway
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-14
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-05-31 10:39:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19424287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LearnedFoot/pseuds/LearnedFoot
Summary: “I—” Peter sighs, frustrated, and steps forward, grabbing Tony’s waist. Then he’s kissing him, a rough, sloppy movement that feels less like a romantic gesture than an invasion, tongue trying to fight its way into his mouth. “I’m pretty sure—I’m—in heat—or something,” he gasps out between kisses. “Sorry.”





	Fine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kmfillz](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmfillz/gifts).



> A treat inspired by your “Spider powers make Peter Parker noncon Tony Stark” request, with a focus on the “Non A/B/O - Aggressor is in Heat/Rut and Accidentally Rapes the Victim” freeform, but some of the others thrown in for good measure. It was a great request; I hope I’ve done it some justice. 
> 
> Set in a universe in which IW/ _Endgame_ did not happen, and Tony never got back together with Pepper after CW. 
> 
> This has a relatively positive ending, given the situation, but it is darker than I generally go, so please heed the tags.

Tony is drunk. Because having a glass of whiskey or four is a pleasant way to spend an unexpected evening alone, and not at all because Peter didn’t show at their weekly lab session. Well, okay, yes, it _is_ , but only inasmuch as Peter ditching is why the evening is unexpectedly empty in the first place. The precipitating event, but not the cause. It’s not like Tony had been looking forward to seeing him all week. And if he _had_ , it’s only because he wants to show off his latest nanotech breakthrough and Peter is a good person to show off to—quick to pick up what makes new tech special, able to contribute suggestions and ideas, apt to stare at him with those wide eyes, somehow still awestruck even though he’s definitely known Tony for long enough that he should be over that by now.

But he’s not _disappointed_ he didn’t come. That would be ridiculous. Annoyed? Okay, a little. It’s rude, really. He didn’t even answer his phone. Maybe he has a hot date; he has been in college for over a month, it’s about time. Still, he should have at least called. It’s only polite.

Not that Tony _cares_. To be clear. He does not.

He pours himself another glass.

***

An hour later he’s banging on Peter’s dorm room door.

It’s kind of ridiculous that he got here this easily. No tech, even. Well, a little tech. Just enough to fool that measly excuse for a key-card reader. But still. He’s currently drunk enough that somewhere along the line he decided checking up on his teenage mentee—college aged, yes, but still _teenage_ , which he probably shouldn’t have to remind himself—is a good idea. He shouldn’t have actually been able to wander right in. What if he didn’t have good intentions? He should give the Columbia security team a call. Maybe donate a new system for this dorm? Yeah, that sounds right. He’ll do that tomorrow.

For a long time—fine, it’s really only several seconds, but he’s kind of tipsy, okay? It feels like a long time—there’s no answer to his knocking. Maybe Peter really is on a hot date. Either that, or he’s been kidnapped by dastardly villains. Option two sounds more likely, especially with the terrible dorm security. Tony’s already starting to push down panic and plot his next move when he hears a faint voice on the other side of the door telling him to go away.

“So you _are_ alive,” he yells at the door. Probably too loud. He shouldn’t draw attention. The whole Corey Hart, sunglasses at night vibe he’s currently rocking is only fleetingly effective at hiding his identity. “Did anyone ever tell you it’s rude to ditch the person funding your college education without nary a phone call?” No, wait. That makes it sound like Peter owes him. No strings attached, that’s the deal. He really should not be implying otherwise, especially right now. For…reasons. That do not bare lingering on. “Or anyone, for that matter. Miss Manners would not approve.”

“Mr. Stark?” Peter’s voice is a little stronger. “Sorry! I’m so sorry I missed lab today. I’ve been…sick.”

Tony knows that pause. Tony has used that pause many, many times. That’s the pause of someone who’s lying.

He really didn’t bring much tech with him, but along with the key-card access his watch is equipped with a tool for picking locks, because he’s great, he thinks of everything. Well, everything except bringing his suit on this particular excursion, which in retrospect: really dumb. What if Peter _had_ been kidnapped? Okay, correction: his _sober_ self thinks of everything. That’s more accurate. He activates the lock pick and starts fiddling. “Mr. Parker, are you hungover? Don’t get me wrong, I’m very proud, but that’s no excuse for blowing me off.”

“I’m not hungover! I promise, I’ll explain—fuck, Mr. Stark, don’t come in!”

Too late. Tony pushes the door all the way open, revealing Peter’s cramped single. Isn’t this supposed to be one of the nicest rooms on campus? He’s pretty sure he called someone to demand Peter get one of the nicest rooms on campus, much to Peter’s dismay and embarrassment. Apparently the call hadn’t worked. Or maybe dorm rooms are uniformly awful. Tony doesn’t remember them being this small—bed shoved against one wall, desk, dresser, books filling every inch of space—but it has been a few decades since he’s been inside one. He should definitely buy Peter an apartment next year.

His train of thought is cut short when he catches sight of Mr. No Show himself, huddled in a corner of his absurdly tiny bed. Kid does look sick, face unnaturally red, damp with sweat. His curls cling to his cheeks and forehead. His hair’s gotten long, Tony notices stupidly. That’s not relevant. What’s relevant is that on top of looking sick, Peter also looks terrified, eyes wide—not wide like he’s in awe, wide like he’s seen a ghost—pupils dilated.

There is something _seriously_ wrong. _Why the fuck didn’t you call immediately_ wrong, which is exactly what Tony asks. Peter shakes his head furiously. “You really, _really_ need to leave, Mr. Stark.”

“Yeah, don’t see that happening.” Tony shuts the door behind him and approaches the bed. He’s a little too tipsy—more than tipsy—to have thought his next move through, but the plan goes something like: take the kid’s temperature, figure out if he dropped acid, decide if he needs to go to a hospital, and if not—

He doesn’t get to the point of figuring out what to do if not, because suddenly he’s thrown backwards. His head slams against the wall with a force that knocks his sunglasses off and leaves him dizzy. Before he can recover, his left hand is thrown up, stuck, suspended above him. _What the_ —web fluid. That’s web fluid. He tugs at the webbing with his free hand, but of course that doesn’t do anything. Peter’s too good for his best weapon to be broken by a little yanking. “ _What_.”

“I’m _sorry_.” Peter’s still on his bed, arm with the offending web-slinger extended. He runs his hand over his face, looking distraught in a way Tony’s not sure he’s ever seen on him before. “Fuck, I—fuck.” He takes aim again, pinning Tony’s other hand in place next to the first. And now he can’t even get to his watch. Amazing.

You know he’s drunk because he didn’t think of that five seconds ago, before he lost access to the closest thing to a weapon he currently has on him. In his defense, he hadn’t exactly been prepping to be attacked by _Spider-Man_. “Peter, what the hell?”

Peter scrambles backward, pressing up against the wall next to his bed, eyes wild. “This is bad,” he says, and Tony can’t tell if it’s addressed to him or at himself. “This is really, really bad.”

“Kid, it’s me.” Tony hopes his tone is reassuring rather than totally freaked out. Maybe Peter actually is on drugs. It doesn’t seem in character but, hey, college. “Just let me down, we can talk about it. I won’t press charges, promise.”

“Yeah, you might,” Peter says, which is a pretty disconcerting response to get to something that was supposed to be a joke. Before Tony has a chance to ask what the hell that’s supposed to mean, Peter answers the question for him, leaping from his bed, landing inches away and ripping his shirt off his body in one fluid motion.

“Hey!” Tony snaps. Peter ignores him. He places his hands on Tony’s suddenly bare chest, spreading one wide against the scar where the arc reactor used to be. This isn’t funny anymore, or even just mildly concerning. It’s full on danger mode. Because if Peter’s on something that’s messing with his inhibitions, Tony’s in trouble. He tries to get his mind to focus on the problem, but it’s too muddled. Besides, he already knows the answer: he has no answer. No tech, no backup. It hadn’t begun to occur to him he might need it. It’s _Peter_. His Peter. “Peter, look at me.”

Peter raises his eyes, so dark they’re barely recognizable. His face and arms shine with sweat, he’s trembling. His hands burn as they trace down Tony’s body, skimming across his abs before going even lower, starting to work at his belt buckle. No. Not happening. Tony tries to kick him away, going for the groin—he can apologize later—but Peter’s too fast, jumping aside and webbing both his legs to the wall.

Definitely on something. That’s the only explanation. “Kid, what did you take?”

“Nothing,” Peter rasp, voice transformed into a frightened growl. “I think—you know how we don’t really know much about my biology?” He seems to get frustrated with Tony’s belt, rips it out of the loops with a hiss, tossing it to the side.

This is—

This is _bad_.

Peter’s removing his own shirt now, and what the fuck is Tony supposed to _do_? Maybe if he keeps him talking he can distract him from wherever this is going. “What about it? Your biology? What’s that got to do with this Fifty Shades of Spider-Man routine?”

The shirt gets tossed to the side, but at least Peter doesn’t go back to touching him. He stands still, teeth worrying at his lower lip, brow furrowed. His entire body is as flushed as his face, defined muscles slick with sweat and damn it, Tony hates the part of his mind that registers that as incredibly sexy. It _is_ , but that’s so deeply beside the point. Doesn’t stop him from dropping his eyes a bit. Peter is obviously hard, cock tenting his flannel pajama bottoms, wet spot blooming, clear and obscene. And, yep, that is not unappealing. (Talk about an understatement.) Tony’s own dick twitches in interest, which is so, so not helping. He feels a little nauseous. “Kid, talk to me.”

“I—” Peter sighs, frustrated, and steps forward, grabbing Tony’s waist. Then he’s kissing him, a rough, sloppy movement that feels less like a romantic gesture than an invasion, tongue trying to fight its way into his mouth. “I’m pretty sure—I’m—in heat—or something,” he gasps out between kisses. “Sorry.”

Well, that’s a fun new twist. Do spiders even get heat? Tony’s not sure they do, but he is very sure Peter wouldn’t voluntarily web him to the wall like this. It’s as good an explanation as any.

While Tony’s trying to work out what the hell kind of implications this new development has for their overall understanding of Peter’s powers, Peter stops kissing him and goes for the neck instead, biting sharp and hard. “ _Ow_ ,” Tony protests. “Jesus, kid, I like it a little rough as much as the next person, but give a guy a warning.”

In response, Peter moans and bites again, harder, shoving their bodies together as he does it, dick rubbing against Tony’s hip. _Shit_. Tony swallows back real fear. Whatever this is, Peter really doesn’t have control, because he would never do exactly the opposite of what Tony says. Strike that—Peter does the opposite of what Tony says all the time. Never listens, really. But that’s superhero stuff and science experiments. Not this. No way. “Peter, _stop._ ”

That at least gets him to pull away from Tony’s neck, though he keeps rocking against him with needy thrusts. When he looks up, his eyes are full of tears. “Mr. Stark, I can’t. I’m really trying, and _I can’t_.”

Okay. Think. He needs to _think_. It’s difficult, brain foggy, Peter’s dick pressing dangerously close to his own. His hands are back to roaming Tony’s chest and _fuck_ , he can’t help responding to that, nerves buzzing where those fingers land, pinching and possessive, dick twitching as Peter moves against him. Adrenaline rushes through him; his body can’t parse the fear from the pleasure.

(He was never very good at that.) (Hence, Iron Man.) (And now he’s just distracting himself.)

Peter’s hands find the waist of Tony’s pants again, start fumbling with the buttons; that pulls his mind back to attention. “Pete, Peter, stay with me.” He doesn’t stop. “Kid, eyes back up here!” Peter glances up, and wow, he looks devastated. Worse than Tony feels. Best plan is to keep him talking. They’re smart, and they’re even smarter as a team. They can think their way out of this. “When you say you’re ‘in heat,’ what do you mean?”

“Are you really going to make me say it?” Even with his eyes on Tony’s face, Peter’s hands are still working, sloppy as they finally get through the button and paw at the zipper, grazing Tony’s dick. His hips involuntarily jerk at the touch, and he doesn’t quite manage to hold in a whine.

“Sorry, ignore me,” he says. “I’m drunk and it’s been a while.” Which isn’t even a lie. He is drunk. It has been a while. Yeah, he’s also not exactly unaffected by the fact that it’s _Peter_ whose hands are currently trying to get his pants down, but some things are better left unsaid. “I’m not trying to embarrass you. I’m trying to pinpoint the exact contours of the problem.”

“What’s that mean?” Peter asks, but he doesn’t sound like he’s really listening. His eyes drop as he manages to conquer the pants, tugging Tony’s underwear to the ground with them. Now there’s no hiding that he’s half-hard. Peter tilts his head as he contemplates the sight, licking his lips again, which makes Tony’s dick throb. His body is a traitorous bastard.

“It means: what’s the least damage we can do here?” Tony attempts to keep his voice steady and unaffected, but it’s not particularly convincing. Given that Peter is currently in the process of pulling his own pants off, eyes not leaving Tony’s dick, he’s not sure why he’s bothering. There’s no way he’s really registering any of this. “Do you just need to get off?”

Quite the “just” there. Part of Tony feels like he’s accepted this whole situation too quickly. The rest of him is coming up with a plan. A plan that involves trying very hard not to look at Peter now that he’s stripped down entirely, dick—bigger than Tony expected, _not_ that he’s thought about it and _not_ that he’s looking—visibly throbbing, leaking precome.

“I, uh, I dunno? I just, I just really want to—” With a growl, low in his throat, he’s back on Tony, lips mashing against him in a toothy, violent kiss. Hands on his hips shove him into the wall. Their dicks press together; Peter moans as he rocks, rough, too hard, precome the only thing preventing the friction from being painful.

Still, this is good. This is exactly what Tony was thinking. He turns his head to break free of the kiss—Peter makes a protesting sound before attacking his neck instead—and instructs, “Keep doing that.”

“Really?” Peter gasps. He sounds genuinely surprised, and also desperately turned on. “Does this—is this good for you?”

The honest answer to that is _only kinda, not really_. His body is still responding, drinking in the scent of Peter, the feel of his fingers brushing his hips, the wet suck of his mouth on his neck, the rhythm of his thrusts. And he’s not going to lie and say he’s never enjoyed being tied up before.

But his arms are starting to ache from being webbed, his legs are pulled apart in an awkward position, his back feels raw from being shoved against the wall. And that’s leaving aside the part where he likes to be asked first. Or the part where this is Peter, and he wasn’t supposed to do this with Peter, and if he _did_ do this with Peter, it wasn’t supposed to be like this, and also _fuck_ , Peter’s really, really strong. That could be hot in a properly controlled environment, but those hands at his hips are going to leave bruises; not the sexy kind but the kind that bloom dark and large and—

Doesn’t matter. He has a theory, and that theory is that maybe if Peter comes, he’ll calm down. Since he has Tony webbed to the wall and doesn’t seem in the mood to talk things through, as practical methods of getting him there go, this seems like the best option. So he lies. “Yeah, kid, feels great. Please don’t stop.”

Peter groans, hiding his head into crook of Tony’s shoulder—a nice break from his teeth, to be honest—and starts thrusting harder, nails digging into Tony’s skin so deep he’s afraid they might draw blood.

“I’m sorry, sir,” he murmurs as he moves. “Fuck, this feels amazing. I’m _sorry_.”

“Stop apologizing.” Tony doesn’t know much about how superpower-induced mating cycles work, but he’s willing to bet wallowing in guilt won’t make an orgasm happen any faster. On the other hand, this is Peter. He does like to talk through overwhelming situations. “Tell me about how good it feels. Flatter an old man.”

(And if, okay, that suggestion is a _little_ because Tony liked the way “fuck, this feels amazing” sounded coming out of Peter’s mouth, throaty and desperate, well, he’s trying to make the best of a bad situation. You honestly can’t hold it against him.)

Peter takes to the idea, rocking faster, following Tony’s instruction, gasping out how hard he is, how good Tony feels against him, how much he needs this. His words mix with soft, needy sighs; his lips brush against Tony’s ear as he whispers, “You're the hottest person I’ve ever seen, sir.” That _does_ feel good, warm breath sending shivers across his body, distracting enough to override some of the bad.

“Keep going,” Tony encourages. “You’re doing great, kid.”

Peter nods against Tony’s skin, quivering. “God, I want you so bad, I always have.” That’s not something Tony needed to hear, not like this; it’s going to be impossible to forget. But at least Peter is bucking faster, rhythm going erratic. “This feels—god, Mr. Stark, this feels so much better than anything I’ve ever—and you smell so— _fuck_ , I want you, I need, I want—”

With a frantic scramble of movement he brings his hands to Tony’s face, pulling him into a sloppy kiss, and comes, spattering their stomachs with it. He rides his orgasm out with forceful strokes, shoving Tony back against the wall so hard it knocks the breath out of him.

And then he doesn’t stop. Doesn’t stop thrusting, doesn’t stop making those needy sounds. Doesn’t get any less hard.

So much for that theory.

“Pete?” Tony asks. Or tries to ask, anyway, mouth muffled by continued kisses. Peter holds him still, hands tight as he attacks his lips, licking and biting until he can taste blood. The salt of tears, too, and they aren’t his own. “ _Peter_.”

Peter stops kissing long enough to sob out, “I’m _sorry_ , _I’m so sorry_ , I, _fuck_ —”

He backs away and then yanks one of Tony’s legs free from the webbing. For a moment Tony thinks it’s a good sign, but the relief is short-lived. Peter shoves his knee up and out, webbing him in place again before doing the same on the other leg. Oh, hell no. “Peter, _stop it_.”

The eyes that meet his are pure hunger, pupils gone so wide the whites have practically disappeared. But he’s also crying; under whatever animal urge is driving him he’s still there, fighting. “Mr. Stark, you don’t understand, I _can’t_.”

This is Peter. No one fights as hard as him. If he says he can’t, he can’t. Which means Tony is screwed. Literally, and not in the fun way. Though he can at least try to make it as not un-fun as possible, right? When Peter lunges toward him, stalking intensity in his movement, he blurts out, “Kid, lube! Please tell me you have lube.”

“What?” There’s a flicker of confusion on Peter’s face, as if he’s having a hard time following the words. But then he blinks and nods, scrambling to a drawer in his desk and retrieving a bottle of the cheap stuff you get at drugstores. Which is just—yeah. He, Tony Stark, Iron Man, really is about to be fucked by a freshman. In a dorm.

He could yell for help; last he checked, dorms aren’t known for their soundproof walls. But he scratches that idea immediately. First off, who knows what Peter would do to whoever showed up. Second, there’s no version of that which doesn’t end with Peter’s name splattered across the headlines, or worse. Not happening. No way.

Peter doesn’t waste time getting straight to the point. He also apparently hasn’t heard of prep; just slathers his dick in lube and shoves it against Tony’s hole. Tony’s muscles clench, blocking him, but Peter keeps trying to push. With his strength, that could get real bad, real quick.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Tony sucks in a deep breath. His throat feels dry and sticky, his stomach is starting to turn, but his cock is still half-hard, too overwhelmed by the constant onslaught of stimulation, of touch and sounds and smell and _Peter_ , to give up entirely. “Hold on a second, cowboy.”

“Mr. Stark, I—”

“You can’t, I know, I know, I got the picture. But you ever heard of warming a guy up first?” Peter’s nose scrunches, as if trying to work through what those words mean. Which might just be the fog of whatever’s going on in his brain, but it also could be... “Wait, have you ever done this before?”

Peter shakes his head miserably. Which, _oh_. Oh, that’s just. That’s not fair. _Peter_.

“Okay,” Tony says, slowly, mind narrowing in on the immediate problem. Easier than thinking about the big picture. “Okay, that’s okay. This is going to be okay, I’m going to tell you what to do.”

Which is how he finds himself talking Peter through opening him up. Peter does his best, he clearly does, but whatever’s driving him doesn’t have much patience, or much sense of strength control. He goes from one finger to three without giving two a chance; he moves hard and fast, wild and claiming. His uncoordinated motions manage to hit Tony’s prostate. He lets out a groan, dick filling. 

“You like that, Mr. Stark?” Peter asks. Tony nods because yeah, he does like that. If this is going to happen the kid might as well know what feels good.

Except Peter seems to take that as encouragement to repeat the movement, and repeat it again, hammering the spot until Tony’s dick is throbbing hard and dripping precome. Until he can’t help but try to shift into the movement, or maybe away from it, tugging useless at the bounds keeping him in place.

“Okay,” he gasps. “Okay, okay, I think I’m ready.”

But Peter shakes his head, keeps going, his free hand coming to his own dick, stroking. “I wanna see you come,” he says, and his voice is too low. Possessive. “I want you to feel good, sir, I want—”

“Pete,” Tony warns. “I’m not gonna feel good if you make me come _before_ you fuck me.”

That makes Peter stop, fingers inside Tony, pressed, teasing, on just the right spot. He seems to be turning the words over, mind slowly pulling them into place. Then he nods, pulling out. Tony sighs in relief.

“See, this is going to be fine,” he says, mostly to reassure himself. He has to stay relaxed for what’s coming next. “We’re going to get through this just fine, Pete. This is fine.” 

***

It’s not fine.

It was fine for the first round. Too rough, yeah, but only a bit, and Tony was so turned on he barely noticed. Closed his eyes and focused on Peter, the sounds he made, the way he gasped, “ _Mr. Stark_ ,” with worshipful awe, the warmth of his body. Peter’s smart; even in his haze he figured out the right angle to make Tony moan in return, kept at it with a steady rhythm until the pleasure wiped the rest of it away—the pain, the circumstances, the guilt that some part of him wanted this, wants _Peter_ —driving into him until he came with a yell, pulling Peter over the edge with him.

That was the first round, and it was hours ago.

Or at least, that’s what it feels like. It’s hard to tell, exactly, time blurring into a constant thud of fucking that doesn’t let up; the slap of skin on skin, nails and teeth and a grip that's too tight. It’s been long enough that the webs gave out, which—small mercy—Peter used as an excuse to toss Tony on the bed instead, webbing his hands to the frame and his legs open. He’s lost track of how many times Peter has come. Five? Six? His arms burn, his muscles cramp, he’s covered in bruises. Everything about him is sticky. Sweat, his own and Peter’s, covers his body, mixing, drying, mixing again; come drips out of his ass onto the blanket below. His hair is plastered down, his mouth feels like cotton, his lips and neck sting and burn from where Peter keeps nipping and biting and claiming.

And still Peter is pounding into him, youth and power-induced stamina ratcheted past eleven to unending thanks to whatever’s happened to him. He’s slick with sweat, too, and burning hot, fever worse than when this started. 

At least he’s stopped apologizing, for the moment; not, Tony’s sure, because he’s stopped feeling bad, but because he seems to have run out of words entirely, reduced to grunts and moans. He looms over Tony, face inches away, hands braced on his shoulders as he thrusts, eyes screwed tight, concentrating. He pants, breath warm across Tony’s face, fingers digging into his skin. Close. Tony has come to recognize that as the expression that means he’s close.

God, now that’s a thing he knows: what Peter looks like as he’s inches from orgasm. He knows it forever.

Peter shifts his angle a bit and drives into him harder, hitting just the right spot to send a jolt of pleasure through him. Tony whimpers, tries to shift away, prevent Peter from repeating the movement. He’s already come twice, he can’t again, it’s too much. But he also can’t get the words out to protest, and Peter’s grip is too strong, holding him down, keeping him in place as he hits that spot, again and again until Tony is moaning and writhing, overstimulated and overcome, barely able to see straight. Not able to think at all.

“ _Peter_ ,” he chokes out, and it’s begging, desperate, though for what he doesn’t know: _stop_ or _more_ or both at once.

Peter gasps and shudders another orgasm. He collapses, heaving, but his dick stays buried in Tony, hard as ever. “Sorry, sorry, _sorry_ ,” he whispers over and over against Tony’s chest as he continues to make weak, stuttering thrusts. His hip rubs against Tony’s cock; he’s so tender and overstimulated even that brief touch makes him jolt and cry out. “I’m sorry, Mr. Stark, _I’m sorry_.”

Tony strains his neck until he can get his lips to the top of Peter’s head, pressing a kiss there. _It’s okay, kid_ , he tries to say, but his throat is too tight for the words to form. He lets his head fall back.

Yeah, he tries to convince himself as Peter’s movements pick up speed. It’s going to be fine.

***

It does stop, eventually, though not before Peter wrings one final, painful orgasm out of Tony. Not before he’s reduced to crying, and begging, and trying to count prime numbers in a futile attempt to ignore how much it hurts. Not before he loses track of time entirely. 

And then suddenly, it’s over. Peter crawls off him, ripping the webbing free. Tony’s not sure what changed, can barely register if Peter came again, could definitely not say how many times it’s been if he did. As soon as the weight of Peter’s body and the pull of the webs is gone, Tony’s mind shuts down, too exhausted to do anything but sleep.

***

When he wakes up, he doesn’t know where he is. It takes him several long seconds to remember why it smells like sex, why his body screams, why his head feels like cotton. He can barely move, everything hurts so much. Almost as bad as after Siberia, or maybe worse, given some of the parts of him that hurt, and why. Given what he can feel smeared, dried, across his ass and thighs.

Shit. This is going to be a lot to process. And Peter must feel—wait. “Peter?”

He hears a sniffle to his right. Against the aching protests of his muscles, he turns his head to see Peter curled on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, one hand webbed to his desk. He looks normal: skin no longer fever-flushed and shining with sweat, pupils no longer as big as his eyes. But he’s clearly been crying. No, sobbing, eyes sunk and rimmed bright red.

“Why—” Tony’s throat is so dry he can barely form the word. He tries clearing it, which is only mildly effective. In fact, it does so little the word mildly should be insulted. “Why are you webbed to your desk?”

Instead of responding, Peter just whispers at the floor, “I got you water. And crackers, in case you’re hungry.”

It takes Tony a moment to figure out what he means, but then he spots the full Nalgene bottle and sleeve of saltines that have been placed beside him on the bed. Sitting is a struggle, but he gets up enough to drink the water without spilling it everywhere, gratefully downing the entire bottle. He takes a couple of the crackers, too, forcing himself to chew and swallow despite his nausea. It helps. The cotton around his mind clears a little, and his stomach doesn’t seem quite so close to emptying itself.

“Thanks,” he says when he’s done. “Why are you on the floor?”

Peter doesn’t look up as he mutters, “I wasn’t sure if I’d—I didn’t want to start again.”

Oh. _Oh_. If this were just about Tony, he’d throw on his clothes, call a very discrete driver, and be home and showered within the hour. God, a hot shower would feel good right now. Or maybe a Jacuzzi. No, too many body fluids. Shower first, to get clean, Jacuzzi after, for the muscles. Yeah, that’d do the trick. That would be fantastic. But nope. Not happening. He can’t leave.

“Do you feel like you’re going to start again?” he asks cautiously. Peter shakes his head. Good. That’s good. That means they don’t need to go into immediate emergency mode. “Okay, so, last time, you felt it before it got totally out of control, yeah?” It’s a guess, but he’s pretty sure it’s right. Peter nods, still quiet. Great, they’ll have warning next time. “Is that why you didn’t come to the lab?” Another small nod. It’s disturbing to be in a room with Peter for this long without him starting to yammer about something. “Did it occur to you that my lab is the _best_ place for you to be when something is going on with your powers? If you were worried about attacking someone on the way over, I could have picked you up—”

“Iwasn’tworriedaboutattackingotherpeople,” Peter says, free hand clutching at the blanket, pulling it tighter around him.

“Uh, I’m going to need you to repeat that a little slower.”

“I wasn’t worried about attacking other people,” he repeats, barely above a whisper. “I didn’t—it wasn’t about just anyone.”

Okay. Tony has to admit he did _not_ see that coming. He hates when he doesn’t see things coming. “Explain.”

Peter shrugs, a small, defeated jerk of his shoulders. “I don’t know. I guess I first noticed something was wrong last week, at lab. I—wanted to touch you? More than normal, I mean.” His face goes red. “I felt like I could barely control it. But I thought, I don’t know, I was just extra horny or something.”

Tony resists the urge to press his hand to his temple. Moving would hurt too much. But hearing Peter Parker say the word “horny” makes him want to tell him to go to his room or something. Yes, even after everything that happened. It sounds wrong coming out of his mouth. “I take it you eventually figured out it was more than just normal teenage vigor?”

Another nod. “Yeah. I got…urges all week. And it got worse and worse and—”

“And you didn’t think of _calling me_?” Tony slumps backward, staring at the ceiling. This is too much. Too fucking stupid. “What was the end goal there, Parker?”

“I don’t know.” He sounds so miserable. “I thought I could wait it out? I didn’t think you were going to show up at my dorm room.”

“Yeah, well, next time you’re avoiding me, make up an excuse so I don’t get worried.” Wait, why would he give him that hint? “Better yet, don’t avoid me. I don’t remember giving you permission to avoid me.”

There’s a long silence. Then, hesitant: “Next time?”

Tony turns away from the ceiling. Peter’s finally looking at him, eyes wide with surprise. “You’re right, good point, no next time. I’m great, I never piss people off, there’s no chance you’ll ever want to avoid me in the future.”

“But—” Peter’s lips twist into a confused frown. “I just—I thought you wouldn’t want to see me again.”

“What? That’s crazy.” But as he says it, he realizes it’s not. No—it _is_ , but he gets why from Peter’s perspective it wouldn’t be. “Kid, I don’t blame you.”

“You should,” Peter insists. He curls back against the desk, as if trying to make himself look smaller. “This is my fault.”

“Your mutant DNA is not your fault.”

“No, I mean—the fact that it was you.” That blush gets deeper. Peter opens his mouth again as if he might have more to add, then shuts it, burying his face in his free hand. “This is embarrassing.”

“You have a crush.” Tony tries to say it like it’s no big deal, like it’s not new information. And, okay, yeah, he probably could’ve guessed, if he’d thought about it. But he’d been trying very hard not to think about it. Trying very hard to deny those little signs of interest; the stammering that suddenly started getting worse rather than better, the times he’d catch Peter staring. Hadn’t wanted to let himself dwell on the possibilities that offered. “And you think that’s why this happened? Why it was me?”

More nodding, more looking miserable. Tony’s entire body feels like it’s been shoved in a sexually aggressive blender, and yet somehow Peter is the unhappiest person in this room. “It’s gotta be, right? Some sort of hormonal trigger, or, I don’t know…something like that.”

He heaves and shudders. Crying. He’s crying again.

God damn it. Tony’s going to have to say it, isn’t he? He totally is. He has to.

“I can think of another reason,” he starts. And, okay, maybe there are other options than finishing this sentence. Probably there are other options. Good, responsible options that will absolve Peter of his sense of responsibility while not revealing what Tony’s about to reveal. But he can’t think of them, and he needs Peter to _stop crying_. “Maybe the trigger goes in the other direction.”

Wet eyes meet his, confused. “What do you mean?”

“I mean, maybe the problem wasn’t that you had a crush on me.” This is a bad idea. If he weren’t so very tired, maybe he’d realize how bad an idea it is and stop himself. “Maybe this whole thing was triggered by pheromones coming from someone who felt that way about you.”

Tony is absolutely positive the science on that doesn’t hold up. That isn’t why he said it. He said it to evoke the exact series of emotions currently passing over Peter’s face: confusion, disbelief, awe, maybe even a flicker of excitement. “Wait, are you saying—”

“Yep.”

“Whoa.” They sit in silence, contemplating each other. “So last night,” Peter finally adds, “that didn’t—”

“I don’t know what that did,” Tony admits. He’s trying very hard not to think about it right now. He needs a little time first. Fix some of the physical side effects before he starts counting the mental scars. “But it didn’t make me not want to be around you, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Peter lets out another sob, hiding his head in his knees. “What? What’d I do? That was supposed to be nice.”

But Peter doesn’t reply, just keeps shaking, looking hopelessly vulnerable. Tony feels a desperate urge to wrap him in his arms. He starts to get out of bed, then realizes that much moving makes the world spin. “Pete, come here.”

Peter looks up, face streaked with tears, and frowns.

“Seriously, come here.” Tony scoots slightly on the bed, patting the tiny space that creates. Dorm beds suck, Peter should definitely be in an apartment next year. “Don’t make me stand up, because I will, but I might immediately fall over. Think how guilty you’d feel then.”

That manages to get a laugh out of Peter; half-hearted, but there. After a moment of thinking about it he cuts himself free and, hesitantly, climbs into the bed, resting his head on Tony’s chest.

For a brief moment, Tony’s entire body goes tense, senses haywire at having Peter so close when the smell of sweat and sex still cling to his skin. A thudding crash of memories almost overwhelms him, but he forces them to the side. This is Peter. _His_ Peter. Whoever that was last night, that was someone different. He folds his arms around him.

“We’ll figure this out,” he whispers against his hair, and he means it for every value of “this.” What’s going on with Peter’s biology, how to stop it. But also, how to deal with what happened. What the things they just admitted mean. They’ll figure it all out. “It’s going to be fine, kid. I promise.”

**Author's Note:**

> Re-dated after exchange author reveals, sorry if you have seen it before! 
> 
> Feedback is always, always appreciated very much <3


End file.
